Muted – on an ordinary street but read itsPost – and you know your deliveries areHorn – washed to conspirators in hiding whose

Muted – voice can be heard before, during andPost – a play and in the motel’s loo, theHorn – can be spotted with an eerie hue which isn’t lost in

Muted – acquaintances who slowly desert OedipaPost – her unrestrained quest to reveal theHorn – secret which she finally witnesses as a

Muted – picture which appears to have beenPost – scripted into lots of stamps that bear theHorn – and the auctioneer grins cries at Oedipa’s gut, torn.

[I am not apologetic for churning out this insanely dust-worthy review, Mr. Pynchon. You go on blowing that muted post horn and throw at me concepts like entropy, teasing verses with Humbert Humbert, dandelion wine, Russian tanks, outdated cartoons and what was that: ‘perhaps to arouse fractions of brain current your most gossamer microelectrode is yet too gross for funding.’(???) and expect me to be sane?! I mean just to tell a little story about a woman who goes to execute an estate and gets confused after stumbling onto a few secret letters flying through a postal network, you had to bring LSD drug into picture?? Heck, yes! Actually, this is a story about this: